


my lucifer is lonely

by cherryconke



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Bottom Sylvain, Collared Sylvain, Dark Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mention of very minor background past Dimilix, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot Twists, Rope Bondage, Top Felix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryconke/pseuds/cherryconke
Summary: “I said,do you yield?"Everything blurs again, sharply, violently, and there’s a trickle of something warm and wet sneaking its way down the nape of his neck. The world swims before him, the only clear thing the burn of Felix’s eyes into his own, looking down at him like he could positively eat him up. Sylvain manages a weak grin, woozy from blood loss, letting himself fall back into the furious glare of Felix’s eyes as he blinks, soft and slow, up at him. A smile stretches across his face, one last fuck you to him, to the world:“Never.”
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 265
Collections: Sylvix Squad Super Stories





	my lucifer is lonely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scythe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scythe/gifts).



> this was written for [ryx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scythe/pseuds/Scythe), as part of the sylvix santa event on the sylvix discord server #sylvixsanta2019 🖤
> 
> a huge thank you to my sweet angel [levii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviicorpus/profile) for being the best sounding board to bounce increasingly ridiculous ideas off of and for beta-ing like a champ; and big kudos to [kina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azuriteaura) and [abacus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mememe2595) for helping read through and beta various pieces of this!

_Five._

Blood, metallic and mercurial, sticks to the inside of his nose. It’s cloyingly sweet when he inhales, lungs rattling in the cage of his chest. The entire house reeks of it, thick in the air. The headache it gives him pounds, insistent, steady as a beating drum against the side of his skull. 

_It’s a nice house,_ Sylvain thinks offhandedly, almost distracted as he maneuvers carefully around a spindly table piled precariously with trinkets and heirlooms, _if not a little… dirty._ The little creaks from the antique hardwood underfoot are muffled by a thick layer of grimy carpet. Underneath the drab gray, little glimpses of wealth shine through in the finishings: rich velvets, tarnished gold, dulled marble. Even the air feels dead, musty with motes of dust and the faded echoes of the people who once lived here.

 _Ugh._ Not a minute later, he’s wrinkling his nose as the scent of dried blood deepens to something sharper, something decidedly… _fresher_. Sylvain skirts around a slick pool of blood, making his way deeper into the house before crouching, quiet as Death herself. 

When he leaves behind the first two bodies, they’re already cold on the floor where they fold in on themselves, a jumbled pile of marionette dolls with their strings cut, adding to the puddle of blood soaking into the ruined rugs.

_Four, three._

Although the acts he’s committing with each deadly slice of consecrated silver are what give him his actual job title, his task today is _far_ from his favorite. No, he much prefers the quiet solitude of solo travel – the rhythmic sway of his horse beneath him as they pick their way over the landscape of Faerghus, the only two heartbeats for miles and miles. This – well, _this_ is just slaughter, plain and simple. 

He may be great at it, but the thought doesn’t make him feel any better. 

Just as he expected, just like he’d been briefed, when he rounds the next corner another body falls, easy. It’s quiet, the way the unnecessary air turns stale in his throat by Sylvain’s practiced hand, the supple curve of silver cutting deep into ivory skin.

_Two._

And there, from the corner of his eye: a flicker of shadows, the slightest hint of movement before – _goddammit._ Sylvain curses internally as a blade whistles by his ear, nearly hitting its mark, before his own blade arcs over his right shoulder. Like always, his aim is practiced and true when he zeroes in on the last bloodsucker, silver blade punching through flesh and bone, easy as cutting butter.

_One._

Its companion hisses, a low warning through chapped, bloody lips that Sylvain chooses to ignore. His dagger’s already twirling through the air, hitting his mark with a fleshy _whump,_ but it’s not enough to take it down completely. 

“Not today,” he hisses, dodging quickly but not quick enough to avoid a blade to the thigh, tearing through layers of light armor and leggings. Fangs flash in the muted moonlight that streams through the window as it lunges again, pupils flashing red in anger and surprise when Sylvain pulls the last blade from his back, it’s blonde head _thunking_ dully on the floor, body following not long after.

When his countdown finally hits zero, Sylvain breathes deeply, tension cutting his limbs loose. His mouth twisted into a disgusted pout, he wipes his blade on the nearest tablecloth and sheathes it. The cut to his thigh isn’t deep, but it’s not superficial either, and he winces when he walks over to fetch the dagger from where it lies, still buried in the neck of his second-to-last victim.

There’s still the rest of the house to search, but for all intents and purposes his job here is finished. Sylvain’s directive had been clear, clean, just the way he likes it: take out the newest neighbors on the Sreng border, the vampires who moved in from the north. And this time, don’t let anyone see him.

Check and check.

_Creeeeak._

The noise doesn’t sound from beneath his feet; rather, his head snaps up towards the source to stare at the doorway opposite him. In it stands a figure, silhouette sharp against the cutting angle of the moon, deathly still. 

Sylvain’s spear is out and aimed before he registers doing it, muscle memory taking over at the merest hint of a threat. For whatever reason, his eyes slip upwards from the trim chest he’s aimed his spear at. He looks one of his targets in the eye for the first time that night. Call him a coward, but personifying his jobs doesn’t make doing the damn thing any easier. He stopped doing that ages ago.

But here, now, he finds himself drawn to amber eyes like a moth to a flame, battering and bruising himself against their intensity where they shine across the threshold. Skin glows a luminescent ivory in the refracted starlight filtering through the windows, high cheekbones smooth and cutting as glass. Pitch ink hair flows around slender shoulders, the same deep velvet hue that frames those eyes in a fringe of thick lashes. 

The eyes lock onto his. Sylvain can’t look away. 

They share a look, and in it lives an entire universe: one that spans eons of chaos and life, of death and destruction, of infinite sin and sorrow. It’s infinitely vast and vastly infinite, bottomless and fathomless in a way that makes Sylvain’s head spin. He’s holding choked air behind the locked prison of his lips, his breath quite literally stolen away by the being in the doorway opposite, a shimmering, ethereal shadow.

Before he can draw his elbow back and loosen his fist around the silver shaft, the sixth vampire is gone. Fled through the back door, quicker than Sylvain’s human eyes can comprehend, as fleeting as the night. His spectral image is engraved into the back of Sylvain’s eyelids, those haunting eyes that caught his attention like nothing in this world ever has before.

The countdown in his head ticks tiredly, reluctantly, back up to _one._

_Ah, fuck._

–

When Sylvain moves through the wild winter landscape, he’s as quiet as a whisper of wind. Navigating the mysterious shadows of the woods comes easily to him – it’s part of the job – which allows his mind to wander as he and his horse pick their way through dead leaves and over gnarled roots.

The escaped vampire haunts his thoughts. Searching the rest of the house had confirmed what he already knew in his gut: that the striking undead man had vanished into the wilderness without a trace. So he’d been left to clean up his mess, burning evidence and bodies alike before heading back to familiar territory for his next job.

It rattles him, this loose end, this number _one_ floating in the back of his mind, nagging at him through the harsh frostbitten landscape as he travels south. Sylvain’s original brief had outlined a specific, definite number of targets; he was typically paid by headcount, after all. All those numbers added up, ticking upwards into the ongoing tally that hung over his head, carried around with him wherever he went.

This job’s number had been five.

_But there were six._

The trickle of the stream he’s following sparkles in the starlight, black water rushing as it twists and snakes deeper into the woods. The trees grow denser, and soon he’s navigating solely by the meager patches of incandescent moonlight that manage to filter through thick branches that stretch towards the sun and sky. 

He’s busy mulling over the vampire’s damn eyes again when the wind changes direction.

It brings him to a stop, senses honed to the finest edge from years of training and bloody practice. Hazel eyes narrow as he stops in his tracks, a careful hand resting lightly on the pommel of one silver blade. The cold scent of pine and earth is replaced with something sharper, more stinging, though not completely unpleasant in his nose.

_Ah. Something’s here._

Or _someone,_ his mind supplies, and Sylvain’s pretty sure he knows who. A sharp tingle of awareness floods through him like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head, the skin on the backs of his hands prickling into goosebumps. He’s being watched. 

His eyes narrow and he clicks lowly at his horse to _stay_ as he drops the reins, backing further into the shadows. The blade of his slender silver knife tucks itself up into his sleeve as he does so, pupils dilated in the murky darkness of the forest.

Sylvain has years of experience, but he doesn’t need that to know he’s at a disadvantage on this terrain. A pitch black, densely wooded forest isn’t exactly ideal conditions for high visibility, but it sure does make the perfect hunting ground for creatures of the night.

Shadows swirl in the corners of his eyes as seconds stretch into minutes, which in turn stretch into at least an hour, if not more. The little noises that permeate the woods taunt him, tantalizing: the distant call of a crow, the snap of a twig beneath moth’s wings setting him less and less on edge until his breathing has returned to some semblance of normal.

It’s too dark to have any hope of being on the offensive, so he forces himself to gather flint and steel from his saddlebag and sit, pulling dead leaves and dry branches towards him in a little pile. Sylvain typically doesn’t have a problem keeping his nerves in check, but right now he can’t help but feel like he’s the one being hunted rather than the other way around. He’s not sure it’s a feeling he particularly likes.

The fire warms his hands and knees but doesn’t do much in terms of giving off light. With each move he makes he can feel the press of eyes on his back from some unknown vantage point, but he does his best to maintain a neutral expression as he goes through the motions of heating up water for tea, of warming the leftover pheasant he’d roasted for dinner yesterday.

In the darkest corner of the night, that bewitched hour when even the birds are silent, the flickering glow of two twin orbs slowly illuminate from a nearby thicket of trees. They’re the same eyes that had locked onto his in the old house a few days back; the same eyes that keep haunting his dreams every night. Sylvain blinks slowly back, breath slowed to a quiet rasp, watching warily. 

His brain screams at him to finish it, to draw his blade and destroy him in a flash of soot and dust, but something deep within him rejects that idea, holding him back from acting on impulse. Instead he stays rooted to the spot, letting the fire flicker out and die before him, not daring to look away.

Time slips like sand through a sieve, until suddenly dawn is peeking over the horizon line, the inky black of night slowly smoothing out to watery winter sunlight. When twilight fades, amber eyes slide shut and disappear.

—

They develop a routine together, Sylvain and this... loose end, for lack of a better term. 

Sylvain travels by day, covering miles of ground as he picks his way through the tangled roots and sloping hills of Northern Faerghus, moving slow and steady beneath the dappled sunlight of the short winter days. It’s just him and his horse making their way south, Sylvain alternating between whistling and making small talk with Lady, receiving only quiet huffs and nickers in return.

Every night after the sun slips beneath mountain peaks, the vampire returns. His presence isn’t hostile, but it’s not friendly, exactly, either. Sylvain wouldn’t go far to say it’s companionable, but with every passing night he grows a little more relaxed, a little more comfortable when the wind changes.

On the sixth day of travel, Sylvain finally clears the thicket of woods, plowing into the powdery crunch of snow beneath his feet. A fleeting thought passes through his mind – will the vampire still come at night now that they’re out in the open, with no trees or underbrush to conceal himself in?

The night winds down, the same as any other. Sylvain’s set up camp for the evening in the shelter of where a large boulder meets a sapling tree, its branches drooping beneath the weight of accumulated snow. The fire crackles, small but hot where it burns in front of him, as day turns to night. It isn’t until the first few stars twinkle dimly overhead that those luminous eyes appear, further in the distance than usual.

“So,” Sylvain starts, drawling and bored. “Are you going to eat me, or do you just like playing with your food?”

It’s the first time he’s addressed the vampire outright. Sylvain half expects him not to answer, or to leave, but to his surprise the two orbs grow steadily closer until the shadowy silhouette of the vampire’s face appears in the firelight. His movements are slow, careful; too graceful to be human.

He’s just as beautiful as the first night Sylvain saw him – all glowing eyes and porcelain skin, looking just as unruffled as he had that fateful night despite a week of hard travel. He’s swathed in impossibly deep shades of black, darker than the night itself. Sylvain’s eyes flick over him, trying not to betray any emotion other than impassive nonchalance.

God. He’s _floating,_ for fuck’s sake. 

“I wasn’t planning on it, actually.” It’s the first time Sylvain’s heard his voice, he realizes, as the smooth tenor washes over him. His tone is cool, neutral, matching his expression as he looks back at Sylvain. There’s a flicker of curiosity that reflects in the crackle of firelight between them.

“Ah.” Sylvain puts on a show of considering his options, brows furrowing as he thinks. His eyes track the other’s every move as he does so. Firelight cuts soft shadows across the peaks and valleys of the vampire’s face – all sharp bones and dry, chapped lips. The hollows carved under his eyes drink in the darkness beneath his flinty gaze. He’s wrapped in darkness, swallowed up by the night, but Sylvain’s eyes keep getting drawn back to the swirl of a cloak flickering around his ankles, swaying in nonexistent wind. He looks positively _bewitching_. 

“So, what are we to do?”

Sylvain lets the question fall casual and sincere from his frost-bitten lips, threading gloved fingers through his hair, pushing errant locks away from his face. The way the vampire watches him doesn’t escape his notice – he looks hungry in more ways than one, eyes flashing as they watch him, dying twin supernovas in the starlight.

“I can’t exactly walk back into civilization with a vampire two steps behind me.”

“Like I’d let myself be seen.” A sneer quirks itself onto the other’s lips, made deadly by a flash of fang. Sylvain doesn’t doubt him, not for a second.

“Well, if you’re not going to kill me... “ Sylvain trails off, purposefully smug. It’s been weeks since he’s talked to anyone other than his horse, and the company – as odd as it is – is actually kind of… nice. And, well, the expression on the other’s face as he draws out the inevitable certainly helps, distinctly disgruntled in a sexy sort of way.

“Am I going to have to kill you?”

“Do you think you can?” The vampire looks almost... _delighted_ at the prospect of a fight, of a challenge. An impish smile, the first Sylvain has seen grace his face, flits imperceptibly across plush lips. The sight of it makes Sylvain’s heart creep further up in his throat, hammering hard against his chest.

The vampire’s eyes flit to where his hand moves, slow and steady, across the ground towards his silver spear. The tension in the air is palpable, thick as molasses. A full-blown devilish smirk flashes across the vampire’s face, and Sylvain can’t help but return it, eyes narrowing at him across the fire.

“Let’s make a deal. We duel, and if I win, I get to finish this job off. Nice and clean.”

“And if I win?” 

“Easy.” There’s nothing fake about the smile that forms on Sylvain’s lips as his hand closes in slowly over the shaft of his spear, maintaining eye contact with the spectre before him – still floating, still effervescent against the pitch of the night sky. Sylvain waits a beat, and then another, letting the words fall crisp and cutting from his tongue.

“You get to do whatever you want with me.” Judging by the way the other’s lips curl, slow and smooth, into a catlike smile, the double meaning of Sylvain’s words isn’t lost on him.

“Deal.”

A gleam of silver materializes in the vampire’s pale hand, easy and effortless, glinting dangerously in the dim firelight. His sword is truly impressive, slender and long, honed to a deadly edge. Onyx shines dully where it’s set into the pommel, fingers wrapped carefully, lovingly around the handle.

There’s a warped blur and a faint _whoosh_ in the air when Sylvain throws his spear, lightning quick – it knocks the vampire back a couple of paces, forcing him to fall back into a defensive stance, blade drawn before himself to deflect the spear, knocking it aside. Sylvain smiles inwardly, pleased in a slightly fucked-up, twisted way. It’s been ages since he’s been challenged properly by someone of similar skill. Most of his jobs lately had been as easy as the aim of his spear, steady and true. 

The smile spreading across the vampire’s plush lips finally reaches his eyes, glimmering with mirth at him. Sylvain desperately wishes he could look away from his exposed fangs, sharply contrasted against the lush velvet of his ajar mouth, panting bright puffs of hot air into the stillness of the night.

The vampire barely hesitates before he lunges forward, swinging furiously at him, arm outstretched and sword extended to sweep out in a dizzying curve. Thankfully, Sylvain’s muscle-memory kicks in quicker than his distracted brain, his hands quickly pulling out his second spear – shorter, more compact – to parry back. He barely manages to block the attack, the vampire’s polished sword coming _far_ too close to the pulse in his neck for comfort. 

Sylvain manages to spin away, panting harshly into the winter air, hands clenched tightly around the shaft of his spear. The vampire stalks towards him, slower and more casual this time. He looks like a panther, all dark edges and sharp lines, and Sylvain takes the brief pause between hunter and hunted to admire how the vampire’s hair has come loose, partway undone from the messy bun, falling around his shoulders like a curtain of dark ink. 

His tongue, wet and velvet red, darts out in concentration to lick briefly against the bratty pout of his chapped lips. It’s only then that Sylvain realizes much, _much_ too late that he’s completely and wholly in a different sort of danger – one that involves potentially drooling while all his blood rushes south.

“So,” Sylvain pants out, attempting to buy time so he can catch his breath and plan his next move, one that doesn’t end in a blade against his throat. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

Amber eyes narrow scathingly at him. Sylvain thinks that he can maybe detect a tiny drop of true disgust in the way the vampire’s looking at him now, unimpressed in how he’s resorting to charm to try and weasel his way out of this. The way the vampire has begun to circle him slowly, a perfect replica of predator and prey, should probably bother him more than it does as Sylvain keeps his eyes trained warily on the other’s every move.

“Felix. Of the former House Fraldarius.”

Something clicks sharply into place in Sylvain’s mind. His memory, blurred from the passing of time, recalls the vaguest shapes of events he’d lived through, heard of: an older brother, the esteemed hunter of the north; the shame and uproar that had flooded through the upper reaches of Faerghus when he’d been impossibly captured and turned by the Srengi; the downfall of the family name, the rest of the ancestral line either slaughtered by the angry people of the dukedom or scattered to the winds.

Sylvain wonders briefly if it’s the revered brother he’s facing now, the living — well, technically _unliving_ – symbol of the death of the northern stronghold, the last line of defense shielding Faerghus from the beasts and monsters that roam rampant and free further north beyond the border.

Felix must notice the briefest flicker of recognition flit across his face, because his lips are twisting into a scathing sneer, slightly tinged with a hint of sadness and anger.

“Not the Hunter of the North. That would be my brother.”

Ah, so another Fraldarius _did_ survive. Sylvain files that information away for later, turning his attention back to Felix, a lazy grin spreading across his lips as he plants the butt of his spear in the light crust of snow, leaning carelessly against it.

“Sylvain Gautier. At your service.”

Felix slows his prowl to a stop, crossing his arms and cocking his hip a few paces away. Sylvain wants to kiss the pouty frown right off of his face. 

_“Hmph.”_

The fact that he’s gotten _some_ sort of rise out of him counts as a win in Sylvain’s book, because he can’t stop the way his heartbeat ticks up as Felix’s eyes narrow in on him. He swings his spear through his hands, casual in a practiced, flippant kind of way. Glowing rubies follow his every movement, tracking the sharp point of the spear back and forth as Sylvain swings it through the air, making him look uncannily catlike.

And, well, there’s a reason Sylvain’s one of the best-paid hunters this side of the mountains – he’s not afraid of resorting to questionable techniques, to fight hard and, when it came down to it, sometimes a little dirty. Which is why he doesn’t feel bad, not even a little bit, when simple, tried-and-true deception ends up working in his favor.

While his right hand swings the spear back and forth, the other slips into the quilted padding of his sleeve, whipping forth a dagger aimed squarely at the pale sliver of Felix’s throat peeking through the folds of his cloak.

It’s flying through the air, halfway to its mark, when a brief look of panic flashes over Felix’s face and he throws himself back and away with inhuman speed. When the dagger lands, pointed blade-down in the snow, it's a hairsbreadth from where Felix’s hand is outstretched. He’s landed sprawled on his back, arms thrown out to prop himself up, panting huge billowy clouds of air harshly into the pitch black night. 

Crumpled up in the snow like that, Felix looks almost _small_ in a way that Sylvain hasn’t seen yet, petite in a way that makes Sylvain want to hold a hand up to his throat just to see how well it fits in the curve of his palm. He approaches slowly, carefully, not so stupid as to think that the fight is in the bag now, but maybe, _maybe_ it’s enough to throw Felix off his game, to rattle him just enough to turn the tides in Sylvain’s favor.

All hopes crumble, however, when Felix’s blade flashes in his hand and Sylvain’s suddenly being forced backwards by the sheer, unbridled strength behind Felix’s grip, the silver blade meeting the shaft of his spear as he swings it up to block the attack in a flurry. Felix is quickly gaining ground, pressing insistently into him with a smile made sinful by flashing fangs, and then Sylvain’s tripping, falling, stumbling backwards until –

Red hair hits stone. A sharp crack rings through his ears, reverberating down the piano keys of his spine to rattle his teeth and knock his vision loose. Felix’s perfect porcelain face blurs before him as he leans over, his own hands still clenched tightly around his spear. 

“Do you yield?”

Felix’s breath smells faintly sweet, like cold clean water and crackling pine needles, where it washes over his cheek. Sylvain’s hyper aware of the proximity of the beating carotid of his throat and the sharp glisten of saliva on those sharp, pointed canines. 

Pressure blooms over his heart, and a quick glance down reveals Felix’s palm pressing on his chest. Another comes up, ghostly pale under the moonlight, reaching to weave through red locks. The touch is gentle at first, but quickly twists into something distinctly rough when Felix yanks his head back, baring the smooth column of his throat away from the collars and layers of Sylvain’s clothing.

“I said, _do you yield?”_

Everything blurs again, sharply, violently, and there’s a trickle of something warm and wet sneaking its way down the nape of his neck. The world swims before him, the only clear thing the burn of Felix’s eyes into his own, looking down at him like he could positively eat him up. Sylvain manages a weak grin, woozy from blood loss, letting himself fall back into the furious glare of Felix’s eyes as he blinks, soft and slow, up at him. A smile stretches across his face, one last _fuck you_ to him, to the world:

“Never.”

The magnetic pull of Felix’s gaze has his head spinning even more. The whisper thin edge of the silver blade over his neck feels bright and sharp, edging on pleasurable in the hazy, confused state he’s in. The thread of Felix’s fingers tugging through his hair hurts like hell, but unconsciousness takes him swiftly, softly wrapping him in the gentle rolling wave of sleep.

–

_One._

_One._

_One._

His head screams as Sylvain comes to, that damn number rattling insistently around inside his skull. Dark shapes fill his vision, blurry and abstract as he attempts to blink the sleep away from his eyes. It takes another couple of beats before he realizes it’s not the number, but a bell tolling, gong-like clanging ringing loudly, echoing up and around staircases and high ceilings.

His eyes finally focus, a clear lens snapping across his vision. His head _aches,_ the pounding emanating from a sharp throb near the back of his skull. The clock, a deep vibrato, finally ceases after three more tolls, only to be replaced by the delicate screech of metal on metal coming from somewhere to his right. 

Sylvain jerks his head towards the source, too quickly, whiplash snapping at the bruised tendons in his neck. The quiet gasp that falls from his lips doesn’t go unnoticed by the lithe figure seated behind a wooden desk, perfect rose quartz lips pursing. Porcelain incisors gleam in the flickering firelight, as deadly as the dagger he’s sharpening between scarred, lithe fingers. 

“Ah. You’re awake.”

Sylvain feels the gears of his brain grinding as he struggles to put together the pieces – _that perfect, melodic voice, a sharp tenor, bright eyes and steel blades and fuck how his head hurts, images of blood and teeth, white bone incisors coming closer to his neck–_

“So. You couldn’t kill me.” Felix’s smile, the way his amber eyes flash over him in a brief flash of sympathy. It makes the breath catch in Sylvain’s throat, gulping hard at the way Felix is looking at him like he’s an absolute _meal_ to be devoured. Which, Sylvain thinks, he probably is. He _had_ said that Felix could do anything to him, after all, which, looking back, probably wasn’t the best idea he’s ever had.

Felix rises from behind his desk, slender limbs unfurling. He’s removed that ridiculous cloak, but he’s still dressed in hues of deep, velvety blacks, trim-cut to his lithe figure – a turtleneck that clings sinfully tight to his chest and arms with high-cut black pants to match. 

Sylvain fumbles to form proper words in his mouth, lips dry and cracking as he parts them to ask, “Where–”

“My home,” Felix replies simply, trailing the tip of a single finger along the polished walnut desk. He laughs softly at the bewildered expression on Sylvain’s face. The sound echoes in Sylvain’s head, still ringing from the blow he’d taken during their earlier duel. 

“Oh, right. It still looks abandoned from the outside, doesn’t it?”

Sylvain just nods, immediately regretting it as pain explodes in the back of his head. He gasps, wincing, and tries to jerk his hands up, but for some reason he’s unable to. As he looks down, he finally starts to realize the _exact_ sort of situation he’s gotten himself into.

His bare toes curl into the plush shag of the rug, warmed by the low heat of a fire burning, presumably in a hearth, behind him. Heat floods the back of his calves, the nape of his neck, the curl of his hands.

His jacket and shirt have been removed completely, along with his thick-quilted pants, leaving him only in his base layer of slim-cut maroon leggings, low where they cling to his hips. His hands are bound together behind his back, uncomfortable where they’re wedged between the wooden frame of the chair he’s seated on and his lower back.

The rough scratch of rope rubs across his bare skin, pebbling into goosebumps in the dying light. He’s been tied up: bound in yards of sturdy black rope, the span of his chest and shoulders laced up in an intricate pattern. It’s almost delicate, the way it crosses and weaves across his back and stomach, all the way down to where twin ropes dig into the creases of his thighs, over his leggings, to frame his crotch perfectly.

Oh. _Oh._

Something beats wildly in his chest as he slowly realizes exactly what Felix has in mind, _had_ in mind when he agreed to the conditions of their duel. Sylvain raises his gaze, slowly this time, careful of the wound still throbbing dully at the back of his head, to meet Felix’s gaze.

It’s predatory, the way Felix looks at him, like a cat would a mouse caught in a trap. But despite the stone that’s dropped into Sylvain’s stomach, the one screaming at him to run far, _far_ away, there’s a perfect amount of delicious wildness behind those sharp incisors and in those molten eyes, perfectly juxtaposed with Felix’s sharp demeanor.

“I’m sorry about the ropes.”

Sylvain snorts lightly; Felix doesn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. He can’t help the smirk that spreads across his lips, feeling cheeky even as he sweats under Felix’s dangerous gaze. 

“Are you, though?”

The hint of a frown flits across Felix’s face as he draws closer, taking his sweet time, the same sinuous prowl he’d circled around Sylvain before he’d been knocked unconscious. Seeing it again has Sylvain’s heart flickering in his chest as he watches Felix close the gap between the desk and the chair he’s tied against. The way Felix moves is positively hypnotizing, the sway of his hips a slow metronome Sylvain can’t look away from.

“I couldn’t have you running away on me, could I? Not now that I have you…”

Sylvain feels woozy, both from his head and from the spear of hot desire lancing through the core of him, burning him up even further. He can’t even begin to imagine how completely wrecked he looks now, like this: tied up by a vampire and slowly growing hard in his leggings, unable to stop the flow of blood south as Felix moves closer, eyes locked on his. There’s just _something_ about his gaze that completely and utterly unhinges Sylvain like nothing has before –

“Right...”

Here, close like this, Sylvain can appreciate just how dangerously _beautiful_ he is, artfully poised, yet rough and wild around the edges. An escaped lock of hair trails down Felix’s neck, fluttering in the quiet crackle of a breeze, navy flickering in firelight. Involuntary shudders work their way up and down the bones of Sylvain’s spine as Felix’s hand darts out, slow as the sweet spread of molasses, to tilt the stubbled skin of Sylvain’s neck up and up-

“Where...”

It must be a sign of how far gone he is that Sylvain lets his head fall back willingly, baring the supple column of his neck, easy as anything. The liquid heat from Felix’s eyes makes him feel like he’s going to burn up on the spot, so he lets his lids flutter shut, lashes brushing against the thoroughly flushed skin of his cheeks. Even here, like this, he can still feel Felix’s gaze on him, above him, cool breath washing over freckled skin as he gives a reflexive shiver–

“I want you.”

If all the blood in his head wasn’t rushing south, maybe Sylvain would’ve registered that Felix is _teasing_ him, cruelly and mercilessly. Instead, a rough whine slips, betraying, from his throat. This elicits a small chuckle from Felix, breath flooding the hollow valley of his bare collarbone, tickling over the criss-crossing rope there.

“And I think… you want _this.”_

Felix breathes out a huff of lukewarm air against his skin in a ghost of a laugh at the way Sylvain’s traitorous body reacts to the touch of cool fingers skimming over his hips, pushing up on the quilted edges of his leggings. Something lukewarm and wet laps over pebbled skin, goosebumps cascading down his chest as Felix licks over him. Sylvain could just _die_ of embarrassment and shame, curling hot in his gut, as a dark, wet stain slowly blooms onto the front of his leggings.

“Say it.” 

Felix’s voice is sharp, but the twisted thread of pride rising in Sylvain’s throat is sharper as he parts his lips, forming words on his tongue, a hundred different variations of _in your dreams_ and _fuck off_ rattling around in his head. He’s distracted from thinking of witty snark when a noise from the hallway grabs his attention.

It’s guttural, nearly human but not quite, something sent straight from a nightmare. Sylvain’s head jerks towards the open door, rabbit heart pounding wildly in his chest as he scans the threshold for some sign of _who_ or _what_ could’ve ever made that unholy noise. 

A light laugh, not unlike the sound of tinkling bells, spills abruptly from Felix’s fanged mouth. Sylvain’s head snaps back to Felix, close where he hovers over him, their thighs nearly touching, cool fingertips resting lightly at the pulse of Sylvain’s throat where he utters,

“What the _fuck_ was that?”

Felix’s eyes glint, sharper than the most exquisite blade, and Sylvain can’t help but shudder beneath his magnetic gaze. Fingers, bruising as stone, dance over the cusp of his jaw and he swallows hard.

“Oh, that’s just the boar. He must be getting lonely.” 

The smirk on Felix’s face betrays the amused tenor note in his voice. Sylvain’s mind is going at a million miles a minute as he sputters blankly, eyes sliding into unfocused oblivion as Felix’s breath washes over his skin as he leans in, closer this time, mouth catching around the curve of his clavicle, marking a feather-light path downwards.

All thoughts of who or what the hell “the boar” is fly from Sylvain’s mind as Felix presses his tongue against one exposed nipple, pebbling beneath his mouth, and he can’t help but shift forward, pushing his chest out, desperate and needy for touch.

The ropes are starting to burn lightly now where they dig into him, his panting breath expanding and contracting his ribcage in gentle bursts as Felix makes his way slowly and languidly down the shape of his silhouette. His wrists strain against the corded rope binding them, shivering so hard his teeth clatter together when that loose strand of hair tickles across his chest, catching and dragging against the grain of the rope.

“So, Sylvain...” Felix pauses, his tongue darting out to swipe over his lips, quizzical where he looks up from hovering above Sylvain’s now very obvious erection attempting to break free from the fabric of his leggings. The curl of Sylvain’s name in Felix’s mouth is smooth as smoke as it wraps around him, mirroring the movement of a pale palm flexing to dig sharply into the meat of his thigh. 

“Do you want this?”

And fuck, how he wants to say yes, but his head is screaming _no, get out, run,_ as he stares down at Felix in all his glory: bright eyes aglow, porcelain skin perfect, mouth parted to tease with just the tiniest hint of his incisors. Sylvain’s reptilian brain takes over as he moves his head in a jerky nod, a cry of relief immediately drawn out of him as Felix palms roughly over his cock, finally giving him the friction he’s been craving. 

“You’re so easy for me.” Felix smirks, and a little unfamiliar voice inside of Sylvain is crying _yes, I am, yes,_ but he keeps his mouth firmly shut as Felix whirls up towards him, quicker than he could ever blink, until one hand is fisted tight in auburn locks, uncaring of the whine of pain that spills from Sylvain’s lips as he does so.

He only has a second to register how scarily _strong_ Felix is when he’s dragged off the chair easily, being pushed and pulled into place until he’s kneeling on the plush carpet, hands still bound helplessly behind his back. A quiet whimper leaves his lips at the rough treatment, and he can’t help but close his eyes, already feeling everything a little too much. 

Sylvain snaps back to attention, however, before he hears the soft clink of metal on metal and his eyes fly open to reveal Felix’s fingers dancing gracefully over the perfect circle of a thick leather collar, joined with a simple silver ring. He can’t take his eyes off of it, entranced by how the hardware shines in the flickering firelight. 

Sylvain knows exactly what’s coming, but that doesn’t stop his instincts from kicking in as Felix fastens the collar around Sylvain’s neck, just the tiniest bit constricting when he inhales deeply. He feels his cock give another steady twitch within his leggings as the short leather strap falls down his chest, rough edges teasing as it sways over his lap. When he pulls away, Felix’s expression is level and focused, gaze trained on Sylvain and Sylvain alone.

“Much better. You look so pretty on your knees,” Felix purrs, toying playfully with the end of the strap, winding it through his fingers with a wicked grin on his face. The praise goes straight to Sylvain’s head, heavy as it floods through him, and it’s so, so easy to let his head hang back, slack. He thinks about that brief brush of friction he’d earned earlier, the feel of Felix’s hand over his aching cock, the way his eyes shone at him in the dim light, lit up by liquid pools of desire. He wants to chase that feeling as far as he can.

The slow, teasing pace they’ve been moving at apparently isn’t enough anymore, and Sylvain watches as Felix unlaces his pants with practiced, deft fingers, so close to his face yet just the tiniest bit too far for him to lick, suck, do _something,_ anything. Sylvain leans towards him, swaying on his knees, and the expression on Felix’s face is almost _lazy_ as he pushes Sylvain back with one hand, pulling out his weeping cock with the other.

“No touching. Not yet.”

He’s hungry for this, hard and wanting and needy, and yet he refuses to break down and beg just yet, so Sylvain just watches with glassy eyes as Felix palms himself up and down lazily, his length thick and sticky already. 

The details are bright and sharp this close, watching Felix jerk himself over his face. It’s a quick study, mapping the way Felix’s fingers move and squeeze to the breathy expressions that slide onto his features, each one a little bit more raw, more desperate than the last. Sylvain’s own fingers are scrabbling against his restraints, desperate for some sort of relief, his cock hard and leaking down his thigh towards his knee, but all he can really do is kneel obediently and watch as Felix takes himself closer to the edge.

But then Felix’s hand on his cock is slowing rapidly, and he’s stepping closer silently, two fingers coming up to tilt Sylvain’s head back further until his neck strains with tension. Felix’s cock tastes heavy and sweet where it comes to rest against his parted lips, and he can’t help the involuntary moan he makes, soft where it pushes through his teeth.

“Open up,” Felix murmurs softly, almost sweetly, and Sylvain doesn’t have time to unpack the gentle turn his voice has taken before cool fingers are weaving into the auburn shag of his hair, pulling him in to sink down on Felix’s cock, swift and steady, all the way to the hilt. 

Sylvain lets his eyes flutter shut as his mouth goes slack, wet and sloppy where he presses his tongue flat against the hard line of Felix’s cock in his mouth. To say he’s turned on would be a _vast_ understatement, especially when Felix is crooning things that make his blood boil, stroking surprisingly gentle fingers down the line of his jaw, hooking around and curving over the bulge of himself within Sylvain’s throat.

“You’re perfect,” Felix breathes, cradling Sylvain’s face as he swallows him down obediently, spit drooling down his chin when his nose hits Felix’s public bone. He moans again, this time on purpose, and the deep vibrato has Felix thrusting in even further, hair coming undone even further around his shoulders. 

The friction of the rug on his knees is just starting to burn on the wrong side of unpleasant when Felix finally pulls him off, fingers gripping roughly into the edge of his jaw, smoothing back an errant lock of red before giving it a sharp, cruel tug. 

Sylvain’s sure his face is flushed and red, mouth swollen and wrecked when Felix finally pulls him off his cock, dragging it across spit-slicked cheeks, an almost fond expression on his face as he looks down at him.

“Why don’t you touch yourself for me?” 

Sylvain nearly _sobs_ with relief when Felix waves his fingers in some complicated wiggle of magic and his wrists are freed from their restraints, flying to shove at the edge of his leggings, thwarted by the tricky cut of rope into his thigh. He settles instead for grinding his palm desperately over his cock, moaning out weakly. Finally, _finally_ some relief–

“Not there.”

The cruel tug of Felix’s words brings him back to reality, nearly breaking him to start begging _please, please,_ but then Felix’s fingers are doing that little magic finger wave again and the ropes around his thighs pool loose on the floor. Without the delicious bite of restraint, the head of his cock, leaking and red, peeks through the band of his leggings, needy for attention.

Swift as ever, Felix is kneeling with him, pushing and pulling at his limbs until he’s flush against the rug, propped on his elbows, firelight flickering through amber lashes to filter bronze light onto the pale expanse of Felix’s skin where he hovers above him, one hand curled around the sinuous curve of the leash attached to his neck, the other busy ripping off his leggings. And _fuck,_ they’re _literally ripping_ under his hand, which makes another burst of shame blossom behind his eyelids as Sylvain faintly registers just how stupidly hot that is. 

His mind fixates on the thought of relief; of _release._ Sylvain swears his hands are acting of their own volition when one comes to curl around the head of his cock, now freed from the confines of his pants. Within seconds he’s fisting himself loosely in one hand, a pitiful moan spilling from his lips at the much-needed friction. He watches Felix flick deft fingers to summon a vial from the desk through half-lidded eyes, not bothering to stop the steady rhythm of his hand even as Felix tugs on the leash, lips twisting into a pout that Sylvain wants so badly to kiss right off of him. 

“Don’t be a brat. I said _not there.”_

Felix’s iron grip laces around his fingers, pulling them off his cock with ease, and then he’s drizzling slick oil into Sylvain’s outstretched palm and guiding freckled fingers down, down, down–

 _“Here,”_ Felix purrs, all tones of velvet and soft leather in his ear as Sylvain curls a wet finger into himself, moaning weakly against the tight heat. The look in Felix’s eyes is so sinfully unholy he might fall apart, but really, now that he’s thinking about it, hasn’t he been falling apart ever since they first laid eyes upon each other in that dusty kitchen, the scent of blood thick in the air between them?

“Another.” 

And even though Felix’s tone is commanding and sure, Sylvain finds himself pumping the same single finger inside himself, hypnotized by the way Felix’s eyes are all blown pupil on him, hot and dark with desire. 

“...Or what?” Sylvain feels a little less like the whimpering mess he was when his hands were tied and a little more like himself, throwing his typical sass as he revels in the slow burn and stretch. His smirk quickly dissolves into whimpers when Felix glares, forming a hard ring around the base of his cock with two fingers, pressing into his skin relentlessly. Felix’s other hand tugs sharply on his leash, which Sylvain had nearly forgotten was there, jerking Sylvain’s chin up towards him. 

_“Ah, fuck—“_

“Or this is going to take _much_ longer than necessary.”

Felix smirks down at him, lips quirking into a small smile as he watches Sylvain cave and crumble completely beneath his gaze and the veiled threat, slipping another finger inside, crying out at the impossibly full burn he feels.

He falls apart even further when one of Felix’s fingers joins his, unnaturally cool against the heat of his own, enough to make his head fall back in rapture, feeling nothing but the edges of his collar burning around his throat and the slick slide of their fingers together. Felix’s curve around, hitting that spot in him that has him shaking and dripping against the rug, thighs trembling when Felix withdraws abruptly.

And here comes the inevitable, breathless begging pouring out of his mouth as he gasps around the sudden emptiness, wanting so badly to be filled and fucked and whole, fingers slick and frantic where they press into himself.

“Shit, fuck, please, _please_ –“

“What is it, sweet?” A cruel smile twists itself onto Felix’s face, fangs flashing in the dim flicker of firelight. 

“More,” he begs, but Felix is busy, one hand stroking languidly over his weeping cock while the other traces over the intricate pattern the ropes left stretched across his chest and arms, feeling like fire where his fingertip trails over Sylvain’s flushed skin. Felix’s hand trails down to latch around Sylvain’s wrist, dragging his hand unceremoniously out of himself, returning it to the small of his back to meet his other hand there, ribbons twisting and flying as Felix secures his hands once more.

And then he’s being dragged around easily, the grip of Felix’s hands bitingly strong as he twists and pulls and pushes him into the rug, face down. The heat from the fire kisses the bridge of his nose, more gentle than anything he’s experienced tonight.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Felix announces, haughty, as he lines himself up, cool and hard where he brushes Sylvain’s most sensitive parts. In return, Sylvain cranes his neck back to smirk at him, cheek pushed against the rug. Felix looks absolutely bewitching, bathed in the warm glow of fire, a cutting figure against the darkened shadows of the rest of the room, hair disheveled where it falls around his shoulders and down his back. 

“Do you think you can?” 

Felix grins back, all sharp canines against plush lips, and the wolfish look he bestows upon Sylvain crackles like lightning in his core. Sylvain briefly considers what’s going to happen at the inevitable end of this entire experience, but any shred of coherence and composure vanishes when he’s cleaved in two, clenching down on the sharp burn of Felix sliding into him – swiftly, to the hilt, all at once. 

_Fuck,_ he doesn’t remember the last time he felt so good, if he’s _ever_ felt this good before. His body sings against the strain of the ropes where they kiss into the cords of his muscles, sweat forming on his brow and upper lip as Felix drives into him without mercy. Sylvain grinds his forehead hard into the shag of the rug beneath him, back arching in a perfect curve, breath gasping hot condensation into each individual fiber as he tries desperately not to spill immediately.

It takes him a moment to realize that he’s whimpering breathless half-sentences, things like _fuck, yes, please,_ and _more, more, Felix_ into the rug, undone by the ripple of pale hands roaming up and across the curves of his ass and the ridges of his spine, dipping into the valleys of skin between each knot and stretch of rope. The drag of Felix within him is hot, slick, nearly too much to bear, and he’s _this_ close to coming untouched when Felix’s voice dips low into his ear, a heavy dose of hot and heady opium straight to his veins.

“Use your words for me, sweet,” Felix purrs, and usually Sylvain’s the one dripping saccharine pet names from his tongue at whatever flavor of the week he’s fucking that night, but he finds that he doesn’t mind them, not really, not when they’re coming from Felix’s lush mouth, his voice a blade of deep roughness sparkling with an edge of mirth.

“Right there?” Felix asks, tugging on the knots binding Sylvain’s hands as he hits into him, and whimpers of _yes, please,_ spill from Sylvain’s lips despite himself, despite the fact that there’s a fucking vampire pounding into him. Sylvain ruts down into the carpet, desperate and hard and hungry, unsatisfied by the lack of friction and burn of rough fibers against his cheek.

But then Felix hits that perfect place inside him, the one that makes the discomfort so, so worth it, and he’s shaking into the rugs and furs, pulled apart in a thousand different ways but the only one that matters is this:

Slim hands, fingers gripping deep dents into dimpled hips, dragging at a punishing pace. Ivory skin pressed flush against each freckle, chiseling the cradle of Felix’s hips into the curve of his ass. Rug-burnt knees and elbows, the delicious burn of friction where he melts simultaneously back into Felix’s grip and down into the floor. Clenched palms and straining wrists pulling at the restraints, unable to do anything but make his muscles shakily ache.

Each push and pull of Felix within him brings him closer and closer to sweet release, but it finally washes over him when one of Felix’s hands loops up and over to loosely fist his sorely-neglected cock. It pulls moan after moan, weak and guttural, from the back of his throat, babbling nonsense like _fuck, Felix, harder,_ while he nears his release.

“Not yet.” 

That hand slows from a lazy flick of a wrist to an absolute crawl, circling the base but withholding any friction or movement, gripping hard. Sylvain is positively writhing now, Felix’s hand ripping moan after moan from his raw throat, feeling like he’s going to burn up, evaporate, disperse, explode –

And then the pressure moves to the tip of his cock, and he’s gasping out curses as he shoots his release, nearly violent in its intensity, spilling all over Felix’s fingers and the rug.

Despite the fact that he’s crumbling into the floor, Felix’s hands keep him hitched up against his hips, his thrusts beginning to fall erratic and rough as he bottoms out against Sylvain’s body. Cool hands run over the raised loops of rope stretched across his skin, traveling up towards the forgotten leash. A weak moan slips from his lips, overwhelmed and overstimulated as Felix tugs on it, jerking his head back. 

Sylvain’s body falls lax into the floor, a puddle as he lets Felix’s cruelly beautiful praises wash over him - _you’re perfect, fuck, just for me, yes -_ and he turns his head just in time to watch Felix spin, undone and wild, giving a beautiful, choked cry full of sharp teeth and throaty pleasure before he buries himself in deep, hips twitching erratically as he empties himself completely inside.

Sylvain’s gasping, feeling altogether overstimulated as Felix slumps down over his back, a graceful curve where he arcs over Sylvain’s hunched body, spent. He vaguely registers the ropes being dismissed from around his wrists, being pulled to the side, Felix’s chest pressed against his back, arms looping around his waist. 

Cool breath flutters in his hair as Sylvain crumples against the rug. Felix’s hands run all over him, stroking across his shoulders and up and over his hips, trailing shivering touches across his skin. Sylvain can’t help but notice how steady Felix’s breath is in comparison to his own bellowing lungs, flushing hot across the nape of his neck where his nose is pressed. 

He doesn’t know how long they lie there like that, twisted up in each other, but eventually Sylvain manages to blink the sleepy lust from his eyes and sit up, scrubbing a hand through disheveled locks as he props himself up on an elbow. It feels routine, easy, comfortable – it’s second-nature to him by now to start looking around the room for his clothes and the nearest exit almost immediately following a quick fuck. Felix’s eyes flash over at him in a flicker of interest but he doesn’t really bother to move, merely curling his body further inwards around Sylvain’s hips and back. 

“Well. Never done that before.”

Felix’s careful fingers dance up his spine, nearly ticklish but not quite, ghosting touches meant to distract and disarm. His voice, laced with amusement and incredulity in equal parts, sends faint shivers down Sylvain’s back as he casts a lazy look at him.

“You aren’t trying to tell me that I just fucked a _virgin_ , are you?”

Sylvain lets a laugh slip out, unbidden and candid, as he brushes his fingers gingerly over the back of his head, at the wound still throbbing dully from their earlier duel. He turns to look down at Felix, lax where he lies on the rug, eyes watching him with rapt interest, just the softest hint of amusement behind the sharp gleam of ruby. 

“No, I meant _fuck_ a _vampire.”_

Despite the fact that he’s naked aside from the bind of ropes around his chest and a leather collar around his neck, it’s oddly easy to tease Felix; to squirm into the touch of cool fingers rubbing circles into his bare hips and to revel in his gaze on him, watching Sylvain like he’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. Still, though, he never sticks around long, and despite that being some of the hottest, kinkiest sex he’s ever had, Sylvain doesn’t plan to change his old habits anytime soon.

“But as great of a lay as you are, I should probably get going.”

“Hmm.”

Felix hums, wrapping himself further around Sylvain, pulling him with inhuman strength back down to the rug. The way Felix stretches out, languidly half-sprawled atop his chest, reminds Sylvain distinctly of a cat. A cat with impossible strength and a sharp tongue and the softest hair Sylvain’s ever felt, but a cat nonetheless. 

“I don’t think so.”

Sylvain looks up bemusedly at where Felix is perched over him, chest to chest, all pale skin and vibrant eyes. He combs his fingers through the tousled length of Felix’s hair lazily, weaving the ends between his fingers. His eyes are drawn down to the plush curve of Felix’s lips, perfect peach, curled into a lazy, amused smile.

“I don’t think I’m _quite_ ready for round two yet, sweetheart. The woes of being mortal, and all that.” Sylvain pets a hand through his hair, wanting so badly to kiss the stupid smirk right off of Felix’s face before realization slowly dawns on him that they’ve gone the _entire night_ without kissing. Jesus.

“And anyway, we made a deal. You won the duel, so you got to fuck me.”

Felix nods as Sylvain explains, fingering the metal ring of his collar, giving it a gentle tug. 

“We did make a deal. But the deal wasn’t for me to fuck you. The deal was that I could do _whatever I wanted with you,”_ Felix purrs, and he’s got that dangerous glint in his eyes that makes Sylvain’s pulse beat a little harder, a little faster in his neck. 

“You already _did_ what you wanted with me,” Sylvain finds himself protesting, brows creasing in the middle as he tries to recall _exactly_ what the deal had been, what he’d agreed to. The lines are blurred, smeared by lust and the headache blooming in the back of his skull, and Sylvain desperately wishes they weren’t.

“Oh, but I didn’t want to just fuck you, sweet.”

A hand comes up, stroking through his hair, too gentle in contrast to whatever the hell Felix is trying to say to him. They tilt his jaw forward, insistent, and Sylvain finds himself letting his head loll towards Felix, drawn in again by those dangerous eyes.

“I want to _keep you._ ”

Felix says it with such finality it has Sylvain’s head spinning, trying to keep up, but his thoughts don’t get any more coherent as Felix swings a bare leg over his hip, moving to straddle and pin him to the rug. Slender hands grasp at his jaw and pet down his freckled chest, thumbing wickedly over a rosy nipple before he dips down, a whirl of tangled hair cascading over Sylvain’s skin, to lick at the rosy bud. Sylvain’s back arches off the rug and up into Felix’s mouth, and he finds his freed hands inexplicably drawn to the chiseled curves of Felix’s hips, because despite whatever the hell Felix is talking about, he’s yet to really touch the other man, has yet to feel him under his fingertips, and God how he wants to. 

Somehow, Sylvain finds enough mental capacity to form a response, stuttered into the soft curtain of Felix’s hair below him as he continues pressing kisses with a hint of fang across his chest, trailing across the curve of his collarbone, made breathless by the delicate way Felix is mouthing over his skin, the biggest tease Sylvain’s ever met aside from himself.

“K—keep me—? What do you mean, _keep me–“_

“It gets lonely up here. It’ll be even lonelier now that you’ve killed off all my friends.”

The words are hot where Felix murmurs them into his skin, completely and wholly distracting. Sylvain’s fingers circle around to dig into the soft meat of Felix’s ass, and nothing has ever really fucked with his head more than this, this weird juxtaposition of being incredibly turned on yet completely confused at the same time.

“Wh—”

“And now that the boar has gone completely feral, he’s nearly unfuckable. I guess a few years of imprisonment will do that to you.” Felix smirks down at him, searching, hungry, wanting, and Sylvain experiences a slow, sinking sensation in his gut as the puzzle pieces snap crisply into place and realization dawns on him, of _who_ had made that noise, that sick symphony he’s meant to follow in the footsteps of. Felix’s fingers trail up towards his face, tugging meanly on a sweaty lock of red hair. 

“And what better replacement… than you.”

Sylvain lies on the rug in stunned silence, barely registering the ripple of pleasure that dimly lights up his nerves as Felix’s fingernails scrape over his cheek and around the curve of his jaw. 

“He killed my brother, you killed my friends… I’ve got _quite_ the collection of hunters now, don’t I?” The smile that stretches onto Felix’s face is slow, self-satisfied, the picturesque cat who got the cream, and Sylvain can’t help but shudder, even now – under the pressure of his touch; under the sweet wash of his breath against his cheeks; under the glow of pointed canines, scintillating where they flash in the firelight.

“You might be my favorite, though.” Felix moves down, hypnotic, gliding smooth as silk over the hills and valleys of Sylvain’s chest, until the tip of his nose is pressing gently, possessively, almost lovingly, into the dewy skin of Sylvain’s neck. 

“Besides.” Felix’s voice is low and sultry where it ghosts over him, and Sylvain has truly never experienced anything more erotic, more downright sinful than the light press of Felix’s ivory fangs into his jugular. His ancestors are positively rolling over in their graves as he whimpers, high and clear against the crackle of embers, tears leaking in a steady stream down his cheeks, fingers clenching into the sharp curves of Felix’s hips, desperate to ground himself somewhere, anywhere. “I’ve always had a thing for redheads.” 

A flash of pain, bright and blinding, flares in his vision as Felix sinks in, and where bone meets blood is the most righteous clash of friction and frost, of life and death pressed together in a rush of crimson and blown black pupils and a strangled, helpless cry.

Sylvain lets the night take him, swift and soft and sweet when it finally pulls him under.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter [@cherryconke](https://twitter.com/cherryconke) for more sylvix/fe3h ~


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